


No Rack can torture me

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctors & Physicians, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Thanksgiving, on-call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Mary's shift was over at three and they were supposed to sit down to eat at five. Key word: supposed.





	

“It’s just a sprain,” Jed repeated.

“That’s not what the x-ray said, Jed,” Mary said, striving for the patience that was almost always second nature to her. It was hard to come by today after staying up late prepping sides and the irrational underlying anxiety that was lingering since the initial jolt she’d had when she saw Sam and Ezra shepherding Jed back to Exam Room 4 wasn’t helping. She’d made herself finish the discharge paperwork for Mr. Henderson, double-checking everything that Val had done before she headed across the trauma bay; her med student was eager, motivated and a wizard at making every mistake humanly possible and some that suggested an alien intelligence might be at work. Sam would have done more than raise an eyebrow at her if Jed was in any real danger and Isabella was charge right now, which meant she was sure to have taken over Jed’s chart and as much of his care as she could, so she tried to calm down and act like Jed was any other patient, a plan doomed to failure. 

“Val, why don’t you check to see if the labs are back on Mrs. Dixon? I don’t think this is a good teaching case, in 4. You can read that article I sent you the link for if I’m tied up for a while,” she’d said before she walked into the room that was only slightly more than a cubicle. It had been prescient, the instruction she’d given, since she’d been trying to convince Jed his arm was broken for the past twenty minutes and she didn’t think either of them could take it if Byron from ortho arrived before Jed accepted the truth. Hale was short on bedside manner at the best of times and he and Jed had a long-simmering (really boiling, but even Mary’s internal monologue tried to be generous) animosity since internship, when Hale had nearly amputated Jed’s patient’s leg and then tried to put the blame on Jed. Summers was old, practically from the cohort that practiced asepsis, but he’d not fallen for it and while they’d both gotten a dressing-down for the, what had he called it? “their unseemly fracas,” in the hallway, Hale had been put on academic probation and Jed had been reassigned to Gibson, who was the best trauma surgeon in the hospital and the nicest too. Mary took a deep breath, because it wasn’t a terrifically busy day for ortho, thank goodness, and Byron was a laggard, but he’d probably be by in a few minutes and she didn’t want to still be arguing with Jed.

“Sam, help me out here. Or we’re going to have to consult neuro before ortho gets here, since Dr. Foster no longer believes in X-rays and thus must have sustained some head trauma,” she tried. Jed trusted Sam and there’d be none of his intermittent but still terribly annoying machismo getting in the way with his friend, none of the rivalry he hung onto with Ezra, who’d been grinning at her the whole time, enjoying himself massively.

“Jed, man, accept it. You broke your arm and that wrist looks fractured too. Looks like it’s a good time for some research. You know Gibson wants to write up that case report with you and you can use Dragon to dictate, just, come on now,” Sam said, just shy of cajoling. She saw that Jed was in pain, not just from the way he cradled the arm against him, but the tight way he held his mouth, the omega sign obvious in his forehead. He was a little pale and she wondered if he needed some Phenergan with the morphine, if Isabella had asked him about adverse reactions; he didn’t tolerate opiates very well and she knew he’d avoided them ever since his cousin Ben had ODed during his sophomore year of college, relying on Tylenol and Motrin for any injury, even the emergency appendectomy he’d had during their second year. The nurses on 6 still talked about what a holy terror he’d been and he always made sure to get them an extra-large box of holiday sprinkled Munchkins in endless recompense. 

“You’ll notice I haven’t even been asking you how this happened, Jed,” she pointed out, shifting from one scuffed Dansko clog to the other. “I leave you at home for a few hours and then this? This was not on the docket.”

“M’sorry, Mary. We were just fooling around with the ball in the yard,” Jed said and Sam and Ezra nodded in unison behind him. She could picture the initial idyllic scene and then the disastrous tackle, the slip, the over-extended arm. It was bad enough in her imagination, maybe worse than reality had been. She didn’t want to know, not right now, if she was right or wrong.

“Was it worth breaking your arm over? Because seems like it’s going to seriously restrict your fooling around for a while,” she said, realizing just how it sounded once the words were out, watching Sam’s slow, fond smile and Ezra’s over-bright eyes, Jed a few beats behind with the fracture and the morphine, so she’d already braced herself for it.

“Why, Mary! I hope you don’t talk to all your patients this way,” Jed got out, shifting on the exam table, yelping a little when he jostled himself. She stepped closer and directed herself to Sam first.

“Sam, why don’t you and Ezra go hang in the waiting room? Or I guess you could smuggle Ez into the lounge, there’s a game on, with professionals playing…it’s going to be a little while before we get this all settled and I’d like to talk to my patient alone.”

“You got it, Dr. Phinney. Just text me when Foster’s ready to head out. Ez, wanna split a Twix?” Sam said, strolling out of the room with Jed’s brother, winking at Mary over his shoulder. Jed would be ready to leave before her shift was done and he’d be in good hands with Sam who’d probably manage to save the Thanksgiving dinner she’d planned for right after her shift into the bargain (Jed had teased that her time-tables were better suited to a military exercise but she and Sam were simpatico about how they managed their teams and she knew he’d be glad of the Google doc.) Ezra might be watching the game, but Sam was probably going to rally the troops and might, just might, even figure out a way to break the news to Jed’s mother, who’d already been put out about such a late hour for the holiday meal and the lack of a dress code. 

“You going to be a big boy now and stop this nonsense?” Mary said, resting a careful hand on Jed’s firm thigh in its loose sweatpant. They were close enough that she could have put her arm around him but they were in a glassed in exam room, she was on-call, and it would probably hurt him more than it would comfort her.

“Yes. I feel like an idiot,” Jed mumbled and let his head hang down a little. She moved her hand to the back of his neck and stroked him gently, feeling the tension in him, the corded tendons, the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He was overdue for a haircut.

“Does it hurt that much or it is your pride all bruised?” she asked.

“It actually really does hurt. Like, a fucking lot,” he said, shifting a little as if he could find a better position for a fractured ulna. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“I told Isabella the standard dose for your weight—you didn’t take it, did you?” Mary guessed. It wouldn’t do any good to rail at him, he was already suffering for countermanding her orders. Doctors made the worst patients, everyone knew it, but Jed did take the cake. And, as it turned out, the pumpkin and cranberry-apple pies.

“I told her to cut it in half, I thought it was just a sprain, that you were overreacting,” he admitted. She moved a little closer and now he could rest his head, well, his forehead, on her shoulder and she could drop a quick kiss to his temple, his ruffled, sweaty curls.

“Let me get the rest of the dose, then, you’re going to need it before Byron comes to deal with it. Sam’ll take care of the dinner, you know he will. Once the cast is on, we’ll get you home and you’ll feel better,” Mary said. It wasn’t the holiday she’d planned but such was life and most everyone at the dinner understood that and if Jed’s mother hadn’t figured it out by now, there wasn’t much Mary could do about that. “Just hang on for a min--”

“Really, Phinney? Your behavior is insupportable! I should get McBurney in here to see how unprofessional you are! Or the ethics committee!”

Mary closed her eyes as she felt Jed lift his head from her scrub-topped breast. She took a deep breath, then another. It was a measure of how uncomfortable Jed was that he hadn’t interrupted or already come up with a sarcastic insult; she wouldn’t chalk it up to him learning to choose his battles, especially since this was a particularly choice adversary.

“Anne. Perhaps you could dial. It. Back. I gather Byron’s occupied? He said he’d be down and yet, here you are, in his place. Jed needs some fractures set and a cast,” Mary said. 

She’d learned to try to engage Anne as little as possible but it was a strain today with Jed broken and her holiday plans, the broken night of sleep before. Frankly, Anne Hastings was far superior to Byron technically and the part of Mary that wanted to make sure Jed had an uncomplicated recovery with full recovery of dexterity was glad the Englishwoman was here but the rest of her couldn’t help wish for the more malleable Hale or even crusty old Summers, who hadn’t worked a holiday call in twenty years. 

“Perhaps you could let me determine my patient’s management, Phinney. A ER resident has no place telling a senior consultant what to do, I see I have to remind you. Again,” Anne declared, at least flicking through Jed’s chart on the portable tablet while she spoke with one manicured finger, eying the man before her more than Mary.

“Temper,” Jed murmured, glancing up at Mary with some of his usual devilish gleam, even without the rest of the morphine on board. He couldn’t manage a smile, not a real one, but his gaze rested on her fondly and she felt it settle her.

“I’ll step out then and let you get to it. I have a few other patients to see to, but I’ll be in the nursing station when you want me, Dr. Hastings,” Mary said. It was so tempting to be as frosty as Anne but not worth it and she did have other patients, Jed was in the most competent available hands, and God knows what havoc Val might have wrought in her absence. “Jed, mind you manners now and I’ll get Sam to help with the discharge paperwork when this is all done.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Jed replied and promptly shut his mouth, always an effort for him. He was sorry, she could see, and she accepted the indirect apology with a little nod. She’d be more effusive when the discharge was done and Sam and Ezra went to get the car, when Jed was properly medicated and a kiss would be welcome. She could give Isabella the high sign and know they wouldn’t be disturbed for a few minutes.

Mary sat in front of a computer and tried to figure out what to be thankful for as she entered orders—that Anne had already been making little reassuring sounds that she’d never been able to fake, so his injury was not likely to do much besides slow him down for several weeks, that Sam had likely taken their Thanksgiving dinner in hand in every way, that Jed had decided to play nice and had stopped acting like a lunatic. Then she remembered Caroline had agreed to bring two French silk chocolate pies with the usual cornmeal dressing and decided, of course, it was D, all of the above.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't get enough of Thanksgiving modern AU stories (usually with pie), it seems I'm your gal. I brought back our fandom mascot, Percival Squivers, whom I have decided should only appear in modern AU as Val Squivers, but he's ready to cause the same degree of mayhem. Many of the other characters have turned up, though not Emma this time, nor Henry (perhaps they're canoodling off-screen...)
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, as usual.


End file.
